Sort
by Granger-Danger-62442
Summary: He knows, now, that if he had to assign one of the seven sins to himself, that pride would be number one on the list.


**Sort  
** _noun _\ˈsȯrt\

**1** **: a group set up on the basis of any characteristic in common**

**2 **:** a method or manner of acting**

**3** : **many different : **all sorts of

**4** : **in some respects but not entirely or truly  
**- of sorts _or_ of a sort

* * *

Castiel never considered himself particularly boastful. Under the rule of Heaven, he was always- or so he thought- the first to obey. Never questioning his Father's orders, and fighting alongside his brothers and sisters, all in order to preserve the sanctity of his home: this is what the angel knew.

However. Things happen. Events run their courses.

He knows, now, that if he had to assign one of the seven sins to himself, that pride would be at the forefront.

And why not? He no longer feels any pull of obedience towards his former home; instead, there is only a wistful longing and a desire for absolution. But no- there is no allegiance to be found within the angel, and therefore no one to rebuke him for blasphemous thoughts.

Moreover, Castiel feels that there is no harm to be found in indulging himself, now and then.

* * *

The angel of Thursday was known throughout the garrison as particularly adept when it came to flying. He was swift and elusive, able to put even some of his most agile commanders to shame. Most angels choose to become incorporeal when they enter Heaven; after all, a multidimensional wavelength of celestiel intent is much more efficient than a lumbering vessel. As a result, few- apart from those in positions of power- had much experience with their winged apendages prior to visiting the mortal plane. Having no such qualms about encumberence, Castiel was far more advanced than many of his brothers and sisters. Inwardly, he preened at his talent. Outwardly, he was diffident.

* * *

He was one of the few fledglings in his millennia to truly master the use of the angel sword. Having Annael as a mentor certainly expedited the process, but even she noted that Castiel seemed to have an unnerving proficiency with the only blade that could kill their siblings. However, tutelage under Annael granted him another boon- that of the mind of a superb tactician and strategist. He could out maneuver and scheme all but the best of his brothers, and his commands were surpassed by few.

He was, however, never much good at following the instructions of others.

* * *

Time travel is a skill honed only through much practice and tribulation. Therefore, it is not surprising that Castiel's ability to send others backwards and forwards in time was a taxing exercise. Nevertheless, it is still yet another difficult feat that only the highly talented managed to accomplish with a constant rate of success, and therefore the angel was not overly concerned with this particular struggle.

* * *

The skill he most prided himself on, however, was his ability to heal. As satisfying as it was to strike down and smite those who would do his friends harm, Castiel took a special satisfaction in restoring life. He finds that he much prefered the feeling of bones realigning and muscle knitting underneath his touch than he did the cacophony of breaking and tearing.

* * *

More than being skilled, the angel had been _useful_.

He was able to, what was it the demo- Meg, had said? '_You find a cause and you serve it_.'

He remembers a time when he'd had too many people depending on him, and was powerless to assist them.

Now, he has Grace to spare but lacks a purpose to devote himself to.

He doesn't know which is worse.

* * *

He knows which is worse.

Hopeless over hapless, any day, and as a human, Castiel is completely and utterly _hopeless_.

Castiel fails to grasp so many things that he thinks perhaps he should make a list: "Simple human tasks that Cas has absolutely no ability to grasp."

It's a petty thought, as is his purposeful leaving out of the last four letters of his name, and the humanity of it startles him.

The brothers react differently to his shortcomings. If it's something that can be ignored, Sam will allow him his dignity and act as if nothing is wrong. If it's a glaringly obvious gaffe, the younger Winchester will chuckle a bit, not unkindly, and offer a well-meaning consolation.

Dean, however, is different. When Castiel makes an error, whether large or small, Dean never laughs, never makes light of the situation. The hunter will only place a firm hand on his shoulder, meet his gaze seriously, and offer a completely honest, "Try it again."

Both approaches have their benefits, but Castiel prefers the oldest brother's the most.

Still. He can't help but make a mental list as he goes along.

- Don't add an entire box of detergent to the laundry.  
- Similarly, separate all colors.  
- Trench coats are not acceptable for all weather.  
- Sleep is now required, no matter how little desired.  
- Talking to the voice will not stop it from reprimanding you or a lack of minutes.  
- Don't get hurt- being incapacitated prevents you from being useful.  
- Don't let Sam or Dean get hurt. More so than usual. You can no longer heal them.

The last one proves the most frustrating for the former angel. Especially when they get jumped by a poltergeist, and Sam and Dean wind up on the receiving end of two broken fingers and a gash along the shoulder blade, respectively.

Cas escapes relatively unscathed.

The brothers rebuff his unvoiced apologies with equally silent dismissals. Castiel is roiling with guilt, though logically he knows there's nothing he could have done to prevent the injuries. It's just another mark of his incompetence, the tallies increasing each day. Still, Sam can't navigate stitches with his hand out of commission, and Dean can't reach far enough behind him attend to the wound, so it bleeds sluggishly for the next several hours, and Castiel takes to sulking silently.

"Dude." Cas is startled out of his fretting. "Cut the freaking Batman act. We're fine." He glances over, finds that Dean is glaring wearily at a first aid kit in his lap, shoulder oozing stubbornly through its bandage. "We survived before the angel mojo, we'll survive after. But you're friggin' annoying, man. Find something to do or quit your damn moping."

Dean's words are sharp, but Cas knows better than to take them at face value. He accepts the reassurance for what it is, but the tightness in his gut doesn't uncoil.

He feels restless, anxious, and entirely useless. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the former angel laments at his behavioral resemblance to a human child.

However, he realizes that Dean is correct.

Rising up from the chair, Cas crosses the room to perch next to the other man on the bed. He takes the medical kit, removes the suturing tools, and nods towards the hunter's shoulder.

"Teach me."

* * *

Once he has come to terms with his newfound humanity- meaning that the panic attacks are happening weekly, rather than daily- Castiel is pleasantly surprised to discover that he is, in fact, competent at some human skills. In some areas, he surpasses even the Winchesters.

Interacting with children, oddly enough, is rather high on this list. Where little ones would normally shy away from two men they don't know, something seems to draw them to Castiel. The former angel chalks it up to residual Grace, but the brothers have their own ideas.

"You don't patronize them. They probably get sick of being coddled all the time by adults who think kids don't know any better."

and:

"You're a freak, Cas. Kids love freaky stuff."

Either way, Castiel finds it refreshing that most children seem to be among the few who do not find his "creepy soul staring" perturbing.

They're also the one who taught him about flower crowns, which he takes a particular liking to. A lead on a hunt had taken the three men to a nearby playground. The brothers had split up to distract various parents, allowing Cas to talk to children without drawing suspicion.

He'd quickly found himself seated in the grass, cornered by a chirpy girl with missing front teeth, dutifully twining one daisy around the next.

That's how the brothers had found him twenty minutes later. The girl, who couldn't have been older than five, had held her crown out shyly to Sam. Grinning, he'd stooped so she could place it on his head. The girl had giggled, blushing, and turned to Cas expectantly. He'd considered her, then the crown in his lap. Finally, he had shuffled to his feet, reached out, and placed the crown on the oldest Winchester's head. Dean had turned faintly pink.

* * *

As it goes, one thing leads to another, and eventually Cas discovers an affinity for gardening. Surprisingly enough, Dean's the one who doesn't give him a hard time about this newfound interest. Cas reflects on the oldest Winchester's increased culinary forays as of late, and thinks that maybe he understands the concept of coping a little bit better, now.

* * *

Sleeping is another skill that Cas grudgingly excels at, if one could even consider that a skill. The brothers tease him that he's making up for lost time, but neither wake him when, several times after Falling, he retreats to unconsciousness for hours at a time.

Initially, they do this out of consideration; however, one time Dean attempts to wake a dozing Cas, and winds up with a smarting face and watering eyes. Sam shoots the sleepy man an appreciative, "nice one," and Dean glowers. The brothers employ various tactics to decide who wakes him up after that, all of which the oldest invariably loses. ("Always with the scissors.")

Fortunately, Dean's reflexes condition him to catch any incoming arms before they can land, for which a sheepish Cas is grateful.

* * *

Eventually, Cas beings to grow accustomed to life as a human. He will never welcome it with open arms- never embrace it- but he is able to acquire a certain resigned contentment.

Castiel knows for certain that he could never go back to what he was before. When he was an angel, he had regarded his growing humanity with unease and shame; now, he recalls the emotionlessness of the being he once was with the same discomfort. Cas feels as though will always have one foot out of the door: never fully able to separate into his Heavenly or human mindset; forced to hang somewhere in the limbo between.

Still.

He is beginning to think that it's not so bad of a trade: his Grace for the Winchesters.

Cas used to wonder if, had he known then what he knows now, he would have done anything differently. Followed Heaven's orders to the T. Refused to prevent the apocalypse. Allowed Raphael or Michael to have his way. Any one of these steps would undoubtedly have changed his role in Heaven, not to mention that of history itself. He would have kept his wings, been welcome among his brothers and sisters.

And the only cost would have been the trust of two, simple humans. Two tiny, insignificant little fish; specks in the grand scheme of the universe.

So he asks himself: if he could, if he had the ability to do it all over, would he change anything? Retain his piety and purity and heavenly brotherhood in exchange for wickedness and waste and these creatures of the mud?

He finds that this question isn't really a question at all, but a single, ineffable fact. One that makes him smile in its simplicity:

He gave up a house, and, in his searching, discovered a home.


End file.
